


How to Cope When Your Dead (Boy)Friend Comes Back as a Brainwashed Weirdo, a Guide by Martín Berrote

by Rocinan



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Characters Tagged As They Appear, Crack Treated Seriously, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Temporary Amnesia, mentions of Bogotá/Nairobi | Ágata Jiménez, mentions of serquel, yes this is lowkey a weird Winter Soldier AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26626354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocinan/pseuds/Rocinan
Summary: When the Bank of Spain falls under attack, there’s only one man brave enough, clever enough, skilled enough to save the day. Special agent Q enters the bank with one mission only: rescue the hostages, bring the robbers to their knees. Or die trying.Until Palermo looks at him, utterly lost and about to faint, and says, “Andrés?”Q: “Who the f*** is Andrés?”
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 47
Kudos: 142





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanation for this. None. I just wanted to do another bizarre berlermo story, and here we are. Does this make any sense at all? No. Did I enjoy doing it? Perhaps ;)

Special agent Q is a man of principle. There are two facts about him you can be certain of: he’s Colonel Prieto’s right hand man and he’s loyal to the state first. Q is the best in his field and he’s never failed a mission in his life. He’s good- no- marvelous with a gun- any kind, for that matter- and number one at close-range combat. 

He can pilot jets, steer boats, drive any car that comes his way. But his golden trait? Determination. Q never gives up, no matter the odds. This- and his burning loyalty- is what makes Q the perfect agent, the government’s ideal soldier, or as Q himself would put it, “a warrior.” 

His superiors say he is the swiftest marksman they’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. Q never spares the target a second glance. He’s quick, lean, and as stony as a manmade machine. And he can shoot with a gun in each hand. It also helps that Q never complains, not about bullets to the flesh or crushed bones or anything as mundane as vacation days. No, Q doesn’t work for the money, though everyone knows he fancies a handsome suit.

Q does it for the passion. He does it because he can’t stand injustice. He hates the idea of crime taking place under his nose, of murderers and thieves getting away with the harm they do, of victims dying in the wake of broken laws. He detests the bastards trying to ruin his nation, thinks they’re the lowest of the low, and so long as he lives, Q’s sworn to keep them where they belong: under his shoe.

When Prieto plays him clips of what happened at the Royal Mint of Spain, Q’s blood boils. And when Prieto shows him the video of the professor’s face on a blimp, Q grits his teeth and says, “People like this are the scum of the earth. They have no shame and no standards.”

Anarchy is all they want. It’s not noble, it’s not selfless, it’s just some fucked up way to ruin more lives. Q doesn’t need any more convincing from Prieto and his men. 

“I’ll do it,” he says, solemn, “what’s the plan?”

* * *

The thing about Q is that he has no past. He doesn’t need to think of it either. There are records, yes, of an orphanage in Morocco, of a dead first wife, of tests passed with flying colors, and plenty of impressive medals. But he has no reason to look back on those events. And neither should anyone else.

He has no family- no siblings, no parents, no children, no partner. And he intends to keep it that way. Men like Q do not have time for distractions.

He doesn’t even need a name. He has a number and a letter, and “Q” suits him just fine. 

In the present, he lives to serve. He’s one of the few who never asks questions because he needs no answer. Q isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty to keep the skies of Spain clean. Guilt, fear, panic. Those are foreign words to him. 

He receives his mission. He makes a quip. He completes it. And he comes back to his bed in the bunker. Q takes a shot of cognac before he sleeps. Then he wakes, runs a test, and goes out again. Rinse and repeat.

Nothing tempts him to run off. His head’s always clear and his fingers steady.

And if he dies for the future, so be it. Q knows he’ll be wiped away without a trace, but that’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.

* * *

“They’ll mess with your head,” Y- the doctor without a name- tells him.

She has a pretty face, acute cheekbones and lashes beneath a pair of thick spectacles. Q remembers recalling a boy with glasses. He’d even told her so, and she’d said, “He was your friend from the orphanage.”

That’s right, the orphanage. Those memories, he doesn’t dwell on. Y gives him his pills and an injection through the bone. An elixir through the marrow. Q’s age is another mystery, but Y helps him feel not a day over thirty.

“These robbers,” Y says, “they’re not common thieves.”

Q knows that. He glances at the mirror behind her, a wall of glass, and he’s somewhat sure Prieto and the superiors are listening from the other side. Watching. So he waves.

“Get to the point,” he answers.

“We need to be sure you’re ready.” Y taps a pen on her clipboard, but he doesn’t see her take any notes. “Their chess master is clever. So we need to be smarter, understand?”

And she goes on. “They’ll say things to you, lies- for sympathy, pity-”

Q’s rid himself of those emotions long ago. This will be no problem.

“To make you think you should be on their side. They’ll try to get inside you, try to cut you open like a bug and remake you.”

“I’d like to see them try,” Q scoffs.

Then Y turns on the screen plastered to their wall. She runs him through clips and clips of the Royal Mint. She shows him the victims. She shows him the aggressors, the ones they identified at least. 

Silene Oliveira- Tokyo. Anibal Cortés- Rio. Ex-inspector Murillo. The distorted voice of the Professor. Records of an Oslo, a Moscow, a Helsinki, a Denver, and a Nairobi.

And Q watches with barely a blink. They’ve shown him these faces so many times that he’s become numb. 

When Y asks him what he feels, Q asks her if she’s serious. It’s obvious what he feels. Anger. These people belong behind bars and Q will make it so.

* * *

Mentally, Q is as strong as they come. Physically, the good doctor disagrees. It’s little concern to Q, but if he has to name a flaw, it would be his propensity for nosebleeds. Y wants to take care of the problem before Prieto sends him away. 

Q isn’t sure when it started- nor does he care. But he’s been told it’s the result of some facial injury. He remembers broken teeth (since mended by Y) and blood on his hand. The skull cracks easily. He knows this. And that’s all he knows.

It’s rare that anyone gets the best of him, but whoever caused such damage to his nasal cavity deserves some credit for doing it so well that Q’s forgotten how.

Sometimes Q dreams at night. Rarely, but occasionally. He dreams of a boy with coffee hair, nose buried in a book and glasses sliding onto the page. It’s always the boy that tries to speak to him first. 

_“Hermanito.”_

But Q wakes himself up in time. He can never tell who says the word in his dream, himself or the child. It’s not the dream that bothers him so much as the blood trickling from his nose, a line of velvet down his lips. 

Q washes his face in the sink. Then he goes back to sleep. 

Unlike his colleagues, trauma does not touch Q. But Y tells him the dreams are a bad memory, best left in the void. The child was his friend, his playmate from the orphanage in Morocco, and he’s been dead for almost half a century. 

Sometimes the blood comes out when he’s awake. Followed by a flash of nonsense in his brain. So Q dabs the blood away with whatever’s on hand, shuts his eyes, and lets the sensation pass. He can’t always control the blood, but he can keep his mind in check.

Unsurprisingly, Y doesn’t actually have a solution for his nosebleeds. She just prescribes him some ointment and tells him not to die. 

* * *

Q considers scaling up the bank with a wire. Prieto considers lowering him with a helicopter. At one point, they discuss digging a hole underneath and burrowing upwards. Q feels as if he knows the bank inside out, but the others insist he’s never set foot within. 

In the end, Sierra transmits the plan to them.

“Remember, only you can do it,” they tell him.

Any lives lost will be on his shoulders. But Q assures them all- he’d sooner die than leave without the hostages right behind him.

* * *

Q dons a spare uniform, vest and all. The helmet’s visor comes down, enough to mask his face, and he enters the bank on the next food run. He has no gun. Q’s sure the robbers would confiscate it anyway, and he’s confident that he’ll need no weapon.

So Q walks through the entrance as an officer of the law, partnering with another to carry in a great cauldron of rice. The crowds outside? The voices from his earpiece? The doors locking behind? All background noise, static as far as he’s concerned.

Q enters. And while the others arrange the hostages’ food, he assesses. Lobby. Staircase. Halls. Security, he recognizes from the files. The guards sit in a row, locked to the wall. Gandía is missing. Failures in Q’s eyes. He should free them first, but Q would rather not- he has a method to break the heist, and he intends to follow step by step.

The sea of Dalís does nothing to intimidate him. They can disguise themselves and their victims, but Q can sniff out the wolves from the sheep. A sixth sense.

“You can go now,” a Dalí says, “we’ll bring out the plates when we’re done.”

This voice, Q doesn’t know. Then it’s true, what Sierra said- there are new members to the team. But how many more? Three, four, they’d estimated. 

Sierra had tried to take down Nairobi, and nothing tells Q if she’s dead or alive. The leader of this heist is not the Professor. It’s a man going by Palermo, an Argentinian. Palermo, Q does not see. Nor does he find Nairobi.

Two women, Stockholm and Tokyo.

Three men, Bogota, Helsinki, Denver. Now four, with Rio returned. No, five, with the other boy.

Q understands enough to act.

“Hey, didn’t you hear me?” the Dalí- no, Denver- says again, shoving the butt of his rifle into Q’s ribs, “get the fuck out!”

His companions have already left the building. Q turns and follows. But he doesn’t step out. He taps a finger over the locks instead. And when the entrance closes on its own, he looks back at Denver- then Rio- and that boy- Matías, yes.

Q cocks his head.

“I’d like to stay.”

* * *

Rio trains his gun on Q first. But he’s too hesitant, too late, to shoot. Q slams into him and twists the rifle off. And unlike the boy, Q doesn’t hesitate. He aims upwards, a barrage of bullets enough to send Denver ducking for cover.

The hostages scream, of course. But so long as no bullets fly their way, it’s white noise to Q. 

Tokyo fires next, but Q is at the stairs by then. He presses himself low, and kicks Matías in the legs when he charges. He stumbles, and Q sweeps him up by the back of his jumpsuit. Q yanks the gun from his hand, and touching the rifle to Matías’ head, pulls him up.

“Stay back,” Q orders, “now tell me, how important is ‘Matías’ to the heist?”

“If you kill me, you make a martyr of me,” Matías says.

“Great,” Q says right back.

“What do you want?” Stockholm asks, some distance away, quite bravely.

“Finally, some sense.” Q grins. “The rest of you can learn from this fine woman. Let’s discuss conditions. One-”

Outside, Tamayo listens in, in pleasant disbelief that Q’s succeeded. Prieto, on the other hand, is desperate for Q to emerge victorious. His career is in shreds and Sierra has run off. 

Within, Tokyo sweats on a trigger. Because she knows Q’s voice- it’s a hard one to forget, and for a moment- while he explains his conditions with that cold tongue- she listens to a ghost. It’s impossible. But she didn’t listen to _him_ then, and she won’t listen to him now.

Tokyo’s about to fire when the helmet comes off Q’s head.

* * *

Matías stumbles from his grip. Q rolls on his side, then back to his feet, ears ringing from a harsh blow to the temple, rattling enough to topple the helmet from his head. Helsinki stands behind him with the butt of a rifle. 

Q’s quick to regain his balance, tipping the gun at the man behind. 

He doesn’t even notice the way the others gape. Rio watches him, bloodless. Matías backs away. And Denver nearly drops his gun.

 _“Berlin?”_ Tokyo says, something between a gasp and snarl.

Another one? Q whips around, instinct telling him to locate another Dalí. But he only sees the group close in. 

“You’re alive?” Denver blurts. Then seething, he takes aim. “How-

He’s cut off when Q shoots his way, the bullets missing by the grace of Helsinki assaulting his back. Q breaks from his hold, knocks the bigger man back, and- against the cries of “Berlin!”- all white noise, static, static, static- prepares to ram his rifle into Helsinki’s head-

But his attack stops there. A bullet clips him in the arm, no doubt meant for his hand. 

Q reacts before he thinks. He slides past Helsinki, popping bullets into the marble sky as he skitters down the stairs. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees who shot him. A new face with a heavy scowl, tousled hair, an angry gaze, half obscured by a patch of cloth across one eye. 

“Son of a bitch!” that man barks, and the accent’s enough to tell Q who this is-

Palermo. And the leader’s come out.

It should be easy for Q to handle what happens next. He’s lured all the muscle of the operation out. He can grab the nearest Dalí if a shield becomes necessary. He’s more than willing to pop their brains with his gun. Tamayo will tell him to free the guards next, regroup with Gandía, and force the hostages out. 

And it should start with a bullet to Palermo’s head.

But when he looks his target in the eye, Palermo’s pistol shakes. The Argentine freezes on the spot, confusion- or perhaps fear- breaking across his face. Whatever the case, Q knows it’s his chance to draw first blood. 

“Palermo, shoot!” Denver cries.

Q presses the trigger. 

Then Palermo looks at him, utterly lost and about to faint, and says, “Andrés?”

* * *

Static.

* * *

Q fires.

* * *

Behind Palermo, Gandía falls, gun still in his hand. He tumbles to the floor with a clatter, blood pooling from his head. 

There’s static in Q’s ear. Prieto asks him what went wrong. Demands to know.

Q’s hands are steady, but his nerves feel loose, as if they deliberately chose to disobey the commands of his mind. Q never loses a train of thought, never disrupts what he sets out to do. Until now. He replays the event in his mind, remembers the look that gave him pause, the look on Palermo’s face. Q had meant to eliminate him then and there: he knows this.

He’d known this when he saw César Gandía’s shadow rise behind Palermo, a clear shot trained at the back of his head. And still, Q felt his target shift, felt his fingers panic- a panic he is wholly unfamiliar with- and twist his aim. 

“I shot Gandía,” Q tells Prieto.

And Q knows, like a burn at the back of his throat, that he’d meant to do it.

“You did what-!?”

Why, he does not know. 

“Don’t worry, Colonel. I’ll make up for it.”

Then he crushes the earpiece in his hand. Q won’t forgive himself easily for this transgression. But amends, explanations, he’ll worry about later. Q doesn’t worry. He only acts. 

Palermo gulps. He’s the only one that dares move forward, when the rest circle Q like some wild beast. As they should. 

Then Palermo speaks again, but he barely has time to rasp another, “Andrés-”

Because Q snatches the fabric of his shoulder. He thrusts an arm across Palermo’s collar, pulls the man to his chest, and shoves the barrel into his jaw. Q readies his trigger.

 _“Who the fuck is Andrés?”_ he hisses.

And everything goes to static when Q feels a heavy blow to his skull. He slumps, still clutching the red of Palermo’s suit, the warmth of his skin, the pulse underneath, an aching _noise_ to it all.

* * *

Q goes down because this is not his story. He’s not the hero. But neither is Palermo. There is no hero here, but there is a lead.

And this time, the lead is Martín Berrote, a man who thought someone named Andrés long dead. The thing about Martín is that he has no idea how to proceed. So in his mind, he makes this guide-

A guide to coping with life when your friend resurrects as a brainwashed shill.

Step 1: Knock him the fuck out. Accomplished.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was hoping to end this thing this chapter, but it's not the end yet lol. So I hope you enjoy this part of the Ride too! Thank you all for the interest in this bizarre idea (one of these days, I'll write a normal idea with these two, one day)

It’s not often that your best friend returns from the land of the dead. Scratch that. It never happens at all. Except maybe in the case of a cheesy hollywood horror movie-- Martín would know because he saw one back in the twentieth century (the name escapes him,  _ pat’s cemetery _ or something like that). If Andrés- Q- whatever he calls himself- is convinced that he’s the star of some action flick, Martín’s leading the way in a horror film.

But cinema’s never bothered Martín. Real life’s always been more terrifying to him, by far. 

To be frank, Martín does believe in an afterlife. He just doesn’t believe in there being a good afterlife. Not for the saints. And certainly not for the sinner. And in his case- if his beloved caretakers were to be believed- he was born a sinner.

And it had been, ironically, Andrés that convinced him he wasn’t. Andrés convinced him he wasn’t born a sinner. Andrés told him that was a privilege one had to earn. And if Martín really wanted to know what a sinner was, all he had to do was stick by Andrés’ side.

Andrés is dead though. Dead and likely burning in hell, as both of them always knew he would. But Martín had wanted to burn alongside him.

And now he was. Martín was burning, alright, and it’s not a good feeling at all. Because Berlin’s back, in the flesh, and somehow breathing and bleeding like the rest of them. Martín can’t even dismiss him as a figment of his stressed imagination because everyone fucking sees him. And the general consensus? Confusion.

Still, the others resume their mission in the bank. But Martín’s not exactly part of the pack anymore- not since they stripped command from him and strapped him to a chair. Of course, he got out of that. In retrospect, he should have stayed in the chair. In retrospect, he should have known better than to fuck up and release Gandía.

“You should have known better than to fuck up and release Gandía,” Bogotá tells him, just now on the scene. Not quite fury, but equal parts patronizing. Which makes it all the worse.

Martín snorts, steadying himself on the banister. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? Son of a bitch is fucking dead.”

“He’s dead!? Fuck, Palermo-”

“Palermo didn’t kill him,” Denver says, coming to their not-quite-leader’s defense.

“Then how-”

Tokyo slings her gun across one shoulder. Scowls. She points a thumb downward, at the man lying at Palermo’s feet, felled by the butt of Martín’s pistol. 

“He did it,” she mutters, the mumble echoing through the emptied lobby, their hostages once more herded back to the library. 

And nobody goes near Gandía’s bloody corpse. 

If Bogotá says anything else, Martín doesn’t hear. He feels Helsinki’s hands on his shoulders. Probably because he’s still shaking. But Martín doesn’t shake like some child in need of a hug. He shakes like a madman about to whip his gun across yet another scalp. 

So he breathes in, out, in out-

“What’s going on?” A wheeze. Nairobi steadies her hand on the handle of a makeshift wheelchair, her face bloodless. 

Then Matías squeals on Palermo and Martín can’t quite remember when “this fucker came back to life, tried to kill all of us, and then killed Gandía” became “Palermo killed Gandía.” Or maybe Martín’s the one with the victim complex. 

“Okay,” Nairobi says, “what’s done is done… we have to think, what do we do-”

And she catches her breath. Then Bogotá’s on his knees beside her, a tender hand on her cheek. Maybe the others don’t quite notice, but Martín does, because he’s noticing everything except the man at his own feet.

“What the fuck,” he growls, “you two are an item now?”

Bogotá stands. A giant of a man. “Palermo, calm down-”

“When did that happen!?” Martín cries, “when did that happen, who allowed that to happen, who-”

Helsinki’s holding him back. F-

“Fuck!” Nairobi says, piecing everything together at last.  _ “Is that Berlin?” _

She looks at them all, one by one, eyes about ready to pop out of her head. “When did  _ that  _ happen? How…”

“That’s the golden question,” Tokyo answers, coming over to nudge the Berlin lookalike (because it couldn’t possibly be Andrés, Martín’s sure now) in the head, a bit of his blood smudging along her shoe.

It’s not Andrés because it couldn’t possibly be Andrés. Because Andrés is dead. Martín knows this better than all of them.

But he breaks from Helsinki and lunges at Tokyo anyway. Until Denver and Rio drag him back.

In the end, Martín gets locked in a bathroom while they tie the lookalike up. Logically, the next step would be to strip-search that man (not Andrés), stuff him into an extra jumpsuit, and leave him in some isolated room with a wooden chair. Not that Martín cares because it isn’t Andrés anyway, and even if it was, he still wouldn’t care. Not anymore (Martín is not a good liar).

Martín washes his hands and his face and his fucked-up eye in the bathroom, wasting water like there’s no tomorrow, until Helsinki coaxes him out. The Serbian doesn’t have to say why. Martín already knows. When Berlin’s lookalike wakes up, the team needs all the help they can get.

It was Martín who brought the lunatic down (See chapter 1, Step 1 of How to Cope When Your Dead Friend Comes Back as a Brainwashed Weirdo, a guide by Martín Berrote: Knock him the fuck out) so of course only Martín can interrogate him and drag answers out (Martín is not a humble man- there is a difference between humility and self-loathing, and Martín knows this very well). 

“We’re interrogating that son of a bitch, eh?” he tells Helsinki.

“Berlin.”

Martín pretends he doesn’t hear that correction.

* * *

Obviously, the next step to dealing with their captive is to interrogate him (or more practically, to find some way to publicly pin Gandía’s death on him). 

Step 2: Ask him what the fuck is going on

“What the fuck is going on?” Martín says.

Someone tells him to calm down. It’s Helsinki. Or it could be Denver. Maybe even Nairobi. It doesn’t matter. All that matters to Martín is that Bogotá- since when was Bogotá in charge of shit?- won’t let him into the mail room. And the mailroom is where they’ve got that hijo de puta strung up.

Rio and Manila are with the hostages, and the rest of them are here. And Martín’s not sure if they’re guarding Berlin’s clone or himself. 

“Let me in there,” he growls, “I thought you sons of bitches wanted me inside!”

“Not like this,” Nairobi answers, and something in her eyes tells Martín she’s right. 

What’s he going to do anyway when they let him in? Gouge that fucker’s eyes out? Rip his face off? Ask him who gave him the right to wear Berlin’s face? 

Then Tokyo steps out, followed by Matías, both scowling and quite obviously disturbed.

“Let’s kill the traitor,” Tokyo says, and Martín can’t tell if she’s joking or not so he replies, “Traitor? Of what? That bastard’s not one of us.”

“Palermo, stop denying it.” Nairobi looks down, maybe because she doesn’t want to hear these words either. “That’s Berlin in there.”

He gulps. No, it’s not. But before Martín can say it, Bogotá comes out, the door shutting behind him. He doesn’t look Martín’s way.

“Physically,  _ he’s _ not going to die on us, ” Bogotá tells them, “mentally…” He waves his hand. “Not all there.”

“He’s loco,” Matías says, “fucking nuts.”

“Implying Berlin was ever sane before?” Tokyo adds dryly.

“True.” Bogotá shrugs. “But did he say he was going to kill us all and wear our blood as warpaint?”

Denver scratches his chin. “Shit, he said that?”

Martín decides he’s heard enough. That motherfucker isn’t Andrés, and he’s going to prove it once and for all. 

“I’ve heard enough,” he snaps, before yanking the door open and locking himself in.

“Palermo, you won’t like what you see!” Bogotá shouts behind.

But Martín will choose what he likes and doesn’t like. The rest of them deserve no say in it. 

Just as he predicted, they’ve tied that man to a chair, wrists knotted behind its back and ankles against its legs. He lifts his eyes to meet Martín, a familiar spark of brown within. Martín quells a shudder. He does look like  _ him, _ in some aching terrible way. It’s in the creases of his eyes, the boldness in his brow, the little twitch of pride about his lips.

But there are differences too, minute but grand enough to remind Martín this is not (and has never been) Andrés. 

He’s tanner (and for all his poems about the sun, Andrés had never been a fan of the beach), leaner (and for all his love of his body, Andrés had never been able to resist the taste of wine and cake), rougher (and for all his theatrics, Andrés had never been willing to appear less than perfect). Martín remembers a head of black furls, bits of brown curling through. This man’s hair is cropped close to his scalp, a buzz cut that no doubt makes it easier for him to do his work (and for all his thefts, Andrés had never been able to part with vanity).

“So are you just going to stare at me all day?” the man asks, bitter, a harsh edge to his tongue (and this harshness, at least, Andrés had never used with Martín).

“And what if I do?” Martín says right back, coming to circle the chair like a vulture around a corpse. “I can do whatever the fuck I want to you. I’m not the one tied up, eh?”

“Tch.” The man glares, shifting in his new jumpsuit. “I’m afraid there isn’t much you can do to scare me.”

“Who said I want to scare you?”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing now, this prancing and prowling. Why, Palermo? Some display of manliness? Overcompensation. But for what, I wonder.”

In that instant, he sounds exactly like  _ him. _ And Martín snaps.

He snatches the man by his front collar, clings tight. “Shut the fuck up. Let’s cut to the point- why did you kill Gandía?”

The man holds his breath, adam’s apple bobbing. 

“Why?” Martín asks again. 

The truth is, Bogotá has asked the same thing. Tokyo as well. And Q decided he was too good to answer a bunch of lowlife thieves. But he hesitates now, because it’s Palermo- Martín- asking. And Q remembers the static in his head.

So the man doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks at Martín, bewildered, and says, perhaps only to himself, “Who are you?”

Who are you? Martín raises a hand to strike him, because that’s a question he’s given up asking himself. I ask the questions here! He wants to say. But he doesn’t. Instead, he feels something icy creep up his chest. No, not ice. A burn.

That’s the thing about the worst of fire and ice. They feel the same in the end.

Because Martín knows then, without a doubt, that this is Andrés de Fonollosa in the flesh. In fact, he’s always known and there’s no point in lying about it anymore. He’d known it was Andrés from the moment they locked eyes in the lobby.

Martín doesn’t strike him. He clenches his jaw and thumbs the blood from the captive’s temple. 

“You have a name?” Martín says.

The problem, really, is the fact that Andrés doesn’t know this is Martín. It’s not a hard equation to figure out. It’s just one Martín didn’t want to figure out.

“Q,” he replies. 

Then Q hops on his feet- still strapped to the fucking chair and all- and smashes his head into Martín’s brow.

“La concha de tu madre!” Martín stumbles back. And on the floor, Q writhes in his toppled chair, as if he really thinks he can worm his way out of his binds.

Martín pulls a gun on him then, firing a bullet straight to the ground.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Martín demands, “you’re testing my patience.”

“Bold words from a son of a bitch like you,” Q- Andrés, whoever he is- spits back, “I know where I stand, unlike the lot of you, pathetic excuses for human beings!”

Martín shoots the ground again, and Q laughs.

“So I see you’re wasting bullets now. Be honest with yourself, you won’t shoot me- you wouldn’t dare.”

“What makes you say that?” Martín rains the gun on Q’s head. He can’t miss now, even if he wanted to.

“Because you- and the rest of your companions- think I’m someone else.” Q clicks his teeth.  _ “This Berlin.” _

“So what?” Martín fakes a smirk. “It’s obvious you’re not him. You’ll have to give me a better reason to spare your damn hide.”

“If you thought so, you would have shot me already.”

Martín loathes him. He loathes this Q more than anyone else on Earth. Even so, he stoops, presses the gun to Q’s head and says, “Then tell me, who are you supposed to be?”

Q looks at him, and for half a second, Martín sees Andrés staring back. Maybe for that split second, Andrés does stare back. But Q scoffs and says, “I’m the man that’s going to crush your plans.”

Q means every word. And Palermo knows there's nothing left to be said (but Martín doesn’t think so, try as he might to say otherwise).

Which brings Martín to step 3- assessing the details.

* * *

While Q wriggles on the floor, Martín returns to the others gathered outside. Half of them look at him like he’s something to be pitied, but as you know, Martín has a victim complex. Think of Martín’s brain like this, a kind of wiring that only makes sense when you’ve been in the same place: I am the source of my problems so I deserve these problems, but everyone else is also responsible for my problems so nothing is my fault even though everything is my fault. 

Contrast it with Q’s brain, a kind of wiring that only makes sense when you’ve been literally pulled apart and made anew: I am the solution to every problem. 

“So,” Martín asks Bogotá, “did he tell you anything useful?”

“He told me the plot of three different James Bond films.”

“Figures.” And they both know Andrés had never cared too much for action flicks- he’d always been more of an arthouse snob.

“He’s crazy,” Matías says again, “he really thinks his life is like that.”

“We know he’s crazy.” Tokyo frowns. “Crazier, at least.”

And probably thinking of her lover boy, she glances down. “That’s what two years of torture can do to someone, huh?”

Then Helsinki has to restrain Martín again. From his arms, Martín snaps, “Tortured for who? He wouldn’t be like this if you bastards did your jobs fucking right!”

Bogotá and Matías step back, a clear  _ “we weren’t even there but go off, I guess” _ written on their faces.

But Martín is angriest at himself, because some part of him is furious at Andrés for  _ not  _ being a complete scumbag. How dare he not put himself before the team? How dare he not rat out his teammates the first chance he got? How dare he not bring Martín to die alongside him? How dare he throw himself into the fire and not look back? 

“Palermo, are you calm yet?” Nairobi asks, “Bogotá has something to tell you.”

“I’m always calm, fuck!”

Bogotá is quite used to Palermo’s outbursts by now, so regardless of that obvious lie, he shares his findings with Martín anyway:

  * A strap of vials came with Q’s uniform, hidden under his vest, identical to the injections Andrés used to take
  * Q has the physique of an Andrés that traded painting for the gym
  * Now that he’s conscious, it’s unlikely they’ll get to see Q naked again, but from what he did see, Bogotá observed a number of scars, some still freshly stitched. This was important to him because he recalled the police turning Andrés into swiss cheese.
  * Q woke up before they could cut him open and remove any hidden mics
  * Q also woke up before Bogotá could determine whether or not most of his joints were held together by titanium pins



After Martín absorbs this information, he gets asked, “Any chance this isn’t Berlin?”

And before he answers, Denver throws another guess into the wind: “Does Berlin have a brother, like a twin or something?”

“Like an evil twin?” Matías scratches his head.

“Well, maybe a good twin. I think Berlin was the evil one.”

Nairobi laughs at that, even though she knows she shouldn’t. Normally, Martín would have too, but the word- brother, not twin- strikes a chord.

_ Brother. _ That’s it, Martín thinks. If he can get Sergio on the line, get Andrés- Q- to listen to that bastard’s voice, then he might be able to set him straight.

“Get the professor,” he orders.

* * *

In an ideal world, Martín’s plan would have worked. Andrés would have heard his brother speak and burst into tears, brain instantly repaired. Instead, Q stares blankly at the ceiling while the robbers huddle around his chair.

Martín has a mouthpiece all but jammed to Q’s jaw.

And because Sergio can never make things easy for Martín either, he refuses to speak. Not until Q speaks first. Except Q doesn’t plan to speak until the professor does. And until one of them speaks, nobody’s willing to leave the room.

“Say something!” Martín hisses (to both brothers).

Sergio is not in the room, but Martín knows he is not an emotional man. Even as a boy, Sergio had always been better at hiding his thoughts than most. But Martín doesn’t miss the slight wobble in his voice, the familiar doubt and hope in his words. What Martín doesn’t know is that Sergio has already lived through the alleged death and resurrection of the woman he loves. In that state, there is little that can faze him now.

And because he’s in that state, Sergio is willing to believe that Andrés is on the other end of his line. So he speaks first:

_ “Berlin, are you here?” _

(But Q knows better than to fall for the professor’s schemes. He’s prepared. So he blocks out all the static in his head and shuts his eyes. They’ll have to try harder to pick his brain.)

“Call me Q,” he replies flatly.

Sergio doesn’t answer. And Martín waits for an eternity before the professor speaks again:

_ “All right, Q. What do you want from us?” _

“If I told you what I wanted, would you relent, professor?”

As far as Martín knows, Andrés always relented when it came to Sergio. (Always)

_ “We’ll see.” _

Q tips his chin up. “I want you to let the hostages go. Then I want you to return what you stole. And lastly, I want you to surrender yourselves to the state.”

_ “And what are your conditions?” _

“None. I want you to do as I say. Or I’ll make you do what I say.”

(The conversation is more or less a bluff, a ploy for Sergio to hear Q speak. So he can analyze the voice and its needs. And because he isn’t in the room, nobody sees his eyes dampen when he confirms that yes, this is his brother.)

_ “Then it seems we have no room for negotiation, Q. So before you rain hell on us, can I ask you a question?” _

Q doesn’t answer, so Sergio speaks on.

_ “Do you know who Berlin is?” _

Martín sees the barest of a twitch on Q’s brow. “I’m growing quite sick of that name, professor. I don’t know who the fuck that is.”

_ “Then I’ll tell you. His name is Andrés de Fonollosa. He was the captain in our last robbery. Did you not know? Did your superiors not tell you?” _

(Q knows the professor is lying. Sergio knows Prieto is lying.)

_ “Do your hands shake when you go without injections, Q? Do you feel your body falling apart? Andrés was afflicted with the same disease. It’s a rare illness, genetic.” _

“I won’t be falling apart any time soon.” Andrés would have said it with a grin. Q says it with a growl.

_ “But you already have. Take a look at your teammates, Andrés, take a real good look. You stayed behind so they could escape.” _

( ~~static, static, static~~ )

_ “I’m not lying to you, Andrés. We’re not the liars here.” _

“You’re good at telling stories, professor. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

_ “No, you were born two years ago. Can you remember anything before that?” _

( ~~ hermanito ~~ )

_ “Because I can. I remember your last words to me: I love you very much, don’t you forget it.” _

Martín doesn’t want to know what the others make of that line. And frankly, he doesn’t care how many of them know about Sergio’s family history. He only knows that the line makes him swallow a lump in his throat. Again, he thinks- I should have been there.

(Q tastes blood on his lip. Blood from his nose.)

“Shut up,” Q says, “I’m done listening to this nonsense.”

On cue, the line goes dead. But Martín can tell something’s changed, that some seed of doubt’s wormed its way into Q’s mind.

Step 4: pick his brain. Accomplished.

* * *

The next step doesn’t come easily for Martín. It happens quite suddenly, really. 

When the team decides it’s best to split up, they take turns manning their posts- the hostages, the guards, and now, Q’s room. General consensus is that whatever happened to their Berlin over the past two years, it turned him into the man calling himself Q. And Q is, for lack of better word, a flesh-and-blood man who thinks he’s a steel gun.

The thing about Andrés- Berlin- is that he’s dead. But when he was alive, it can’t be denied that he was an absolute son of a bitch, a real fucker who deserved every bullet he got. It also can’t be denied that he took every bullet so his companions wouldn’t take a single hit. There were many factors to his death- this, no one doubts- and Andrés is no suffering martyr, but it can’t be denied that when it came to choosing, he chose them over him.

The thing about Q- Andrés- is that he’s alive. But he thinks of himself as cogs and parts. Q never chooses. The act itself is beyond him. He only does as he’s told because he believes what he’s told. It can’t be denied that he’s as hardened a killer as they come, that he might as well be hiding steel behind skin. But it also can’t be denied that Q only takes out the worst of the worst, that he truly wants to make the world a better place, whether he lives to see it or not. 

Q is a hero, Berlin is a villain. Andrés had never thought himself either. And Martín knows it’s never as easy as it looks.

Which is why he’s not too surprised when Q manages to free himself from his chair at last, through not dislocating a thumb, but breaking an actual arm. How he managed to get his legs free, though, is a mystery to a Martín. 

What matters, however, is that when Q springs from his chair, Tokyo swings the door open and fires in. And she would have hit her mark too, if not for Martín turning his barrel on her.

While Q makes his grand escape, Martín covers  _ him-  _ not Tokyo, not Bogotá, not Matías. 

“Palermo, you little bitch!” 

“Palermo, what the fuck!?”

“Palermo, fuck you!”

Step 5: Compromise; or more accurately, make an ass of yourself in front of your colleagues so your asshole friend will see how far you’re willing to go for him and maybe be moved enough to remember his own name, but he probably won’t notice because fuck your life

Then biting the sleeve of his dangling arm, Q crawls up the air duct. And knowing he’ll regret every minute, Martín follows. Because Q or Berlin, that’s Andrés ahead of him. And Martín’s damned if he’s going to lose him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments/kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> And next chapter is definitely the end (Whenever that may be lmao)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this makes little to no sense, but we're having fun and that's what counts ;) Thanks for the interest and I hope the ending's worth the wait!

When you last left off, Martín Berrote was following special agent Q- the former Andrés de Fonollosa, once Berlin- up an air duct in the Bank of Spain. Now that you’re back, Martín can remind you of his reasons for doing such a thing: he’s finally accepted the fact that Q and the man he loved are one and the same, he’s quite sure he’s still in love with the son of a bitch, he himself _is_ a son a of a bitch, and if Palermo dares show his face to his companions again, Tokyo would blast his brains out.

Granted, Martín opened fire on his own colleagues first, but you know it’s because he’s run out of fucks to give. So all you need to know are the following facts:

  * Two grown men are scurrying through an air duct like squirrels
  * Yes, it is very awkward for one of them (hint: it’s Martín, because the capability to feel “awkward” was beaten out of Q long ago, and even then, Andrés had never been able to feel awkward anyway, much to the chagrin of his little brother)
  * The rest of the banda believe Palermo has gone rogue, lost what little sanity he had left, had been in cahoots with Q this whole time, or all of the above
  * Although she never liked Palermo, Tokyo’s feeling so betrayed she can and will kill him when she gets the chance (hint: Martín knows this)
  * Although they never hated Palermo, Denver and Monica are quite hurt by this betrayal (hint: Martín does not know this)
  * Although he loved Palermo, Helsinki believes Martín did not betray anyone (hint: deep down inside his sad little heart, Martín knows this)



So sit back and enjoy the rest of this disaster.

Halfway through the air duct, Martín grabs Q by the ankle. 

“Alright, what are you trying to do?” he asks.

Q raises a brow, but Martín doesn’t see. “I’m going to free the hostages.”

“And then?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“You’d be riddled with bullets by now if it wasn’t for me.” _If it wasn’t for Andrés._

“I didn’t ask for a thief’s assistance.”

“Well, that’s just great! Because the two of us are stuck in this fucking air duct now. Like it or not, we’re literally in this together now.”

Q twists around to glare at him. “Keep your voice down. You’ll alert the others.”

“Oh? Now you’re giving me orders? I don’t take orders from bastards, sorry.”

Q has the audacity to kick him in the face. Martín takes the blow to his cheek, and then grabs the rest of Q’s leg. 

“Listen to me, Palermo,” Q says, venom on his tongue, “if you want to live, I give the orders from now on. I know the others won’t let you off lightly-”

“No shit,” Martín hisses.

“And my first order is this: if you’re helping me because you still think I’m this fucking Berlin, kill that thought right now- _it’s impossible.”_

Unbeknownst to Q, those are two words Martín will never forget. And he sounds exactly like _him._ So much so that Martín knows it’s the same man.

But Martín only gulps and says, “How’s your arm?”

Step 6: Weaken his defenses

“I’m not saying this because I care about it, Q. I’m asking because you’re slowing us down.”

* * *

They end up in an office- certainly not the governor’s- and Q lands like a cat, Martín tumbling after him like a slightly clumsier cat. While Martín takes a breath of fresh spacey air, Q draws the curtains closed and unzips his jumpsuit to the waist. (Contrary to what he believes, Q is- unfortunately- not really made of steel, and as reluctant as he is to admit it, Palermo has a point. If he doesn’t tend his wounds now, the rest of his mission would fail. And Agent Q does not fail.)

Martín seats himself in a swiveling chair, crosses his legs, and waits. A part of him is tempted to help, but he also knows Q would reject it immediately. Evidently, Q doesn’t care that Martín’s watching him.

He stands right there in the tight black tee, rather shamelessly, and tears off bits of the jumpsuit with a pair of scissors (rather convenient, if you ask Martín). Q binds the broken limb into a makeshift sling, as if he’s done this before, and Martín can’t help clenching a fist when he realizes. Q plugs up the bullet wound on his good arm, and then stops to curse when a bit of blood drips from his nose.

Then Martín forgets this is Q. He sees Andrés, and without thinking, rises to dab the blood away with his own sleeve. 

Q freezes, doesn’t move, shocked still.

Martín dabs the blood from Q’s head as well. 

“I would have killed you, you know,” Q tells him, “by the stairs, I was going to shoot you.”

“But you didn’t.”

Q doesn’t ask why. (And for a moment, he thinks-- STATIC)

“Where do you keep your firearms?” Q says.

Martín pulls away, unwilling to linger anymore, not before his imagination gets the better of him, because he swore for a second that Andrés remembered.

“Not here, that’s for sure.” He looks to the door. “The basement, that’s where to go.”

Q gets close, very close, and says, “You’ll take me.”

Here comes step 7: Argue even though you were trying to bond with him

“No way. It’ll be us two against everyone else- we won’t stand a chance-”

“I didn’t ask you, Palermo.”

Martín cackles in his face. “Stop trying to fuck with me. You don’t even have a gun- what are you going to do, punch everyone to death?”

“If I have to,” Q mutters, a bit darkly. Then he looks Martín in the eye. “Your gun. Give it to me.”

Had it been anyone else, Martín would have unzipped his fly and said, “Here you go! How do you want it, in your fucking mouth, up your ass? Hey motherfucker, what makes you think I’d fuck a son of a bitch like you?”

But Martín doesn’t say that to this man. He scoffs instead. And plucks out his gun, shoves it into Q’s grasp, and tells him clearly, “I’m not giving this to you. I want to be clear about that. I’m handing it to Berlin, so you can take it or leave it.”

Q regards Martín like he’s an insane piece of shit, but he accepts the gun anyway, and cocking it with his teeth, growls out, “I told you- I don’t know who the fuck that is.”

“Do I look I fucking care?”

“You look like you should stay behind me.” Q presses his back to the door. “If you don’t want to lose another eye.”

Martín touches the handle. “Then you better make sure I stay by you, if you don’t want to lose another arm.”

* * *

The events leading up to step eight go better than Martín expected. For one, he didn’t expect them to survive more than two corridors. Miraculously, they manage that much undetected before they’re spotted. By Rio thankfully, and not Tokyo. Of course, there are also things that go less smoothly.

For example, Rio finally summons the fucking courage to fire now that Martín’s betting on him not to. His aim’s not too well, and Q shoots him a few times in the vest over his ribs. When Rio falls back, Denver and Bogotá come to the rescue. 

Enter step 8: Struggle, just struggle

Martín pounces on Bogotá from behind, wrestles with him for his rifle while Q ducks and weaves his way between the younger men. They manage to graze Q a few times, this Martín gives them credit for. He also has to give Bogotá credit for cracking a fist against Martín’s jaw, and while he’s reeling from the taste of blood, he sees two new feet on the scene.

What happens next, Martín doesn’t really blame anyone for-

Q has Denver locked in his grip by then, barrel jammed to the back of his skull. So it’s only logical that Stockholm would do what anyone would do when they see the love of their life about to die-

She aims for Q, while he’s still looking at Rio, Martín stops using his brain. When the trigger goes down-

Martín rolls out from under Bogotá, and when he hears the bang, finds himself barging into Q.

The bullet gets him- he doesn’t even know where- he just knows it fucking hurts, and the world fucking spins while the rest of them yell his name, or rather, Palermo’s name. Mostly cursing.

“Idiot,” he hears Q hiss. _Yeah, you’re welcome._

But Q doesn’t let him crash to the floor. The last thing Martín sees is the handle of his gun in Q’s mouth, the good arm now clutching Palermo close. Then footsteps, gunfire, and a familiar baritone telling him he’ll be okay. 

* * *

Needless to say, step 9 is to take a bullet for him (mind you, this step was wholly unplanned).

When Martín comes to, he’s lying on a bathroom floor, hard tiles beneath his head. He squints at the ceiling. Then as if his nerves come back to life all at once, he groans. Fingers touch his ribs. Not his fingers.

Martín grabs that hand. And tilts his gaze up, at- 

“Andrés?” he mutters.

He can feel the tourniquet now, a heavy weight against his chest. He stares at Andrés for some time, before the rest of his senses return and he- unfortunately- remembers that he’s looking at Q instead.

“It was a bad shot,” Q explains, “the bullet slid right across. It’s not a light flesh wound, but it’s not fatal. It’s safe to say you’ll be fine.”

Q’s looking anywhere but at Martín’s face, no trace of worry in his voice. But his grip is tight, and he’s yet to shake Martín’s fingers away. “I’ve cleaned it the best I could. You’ll have to deal with the pain for now, until I find something to stitch it with-”

“How did we get out?” Martín cuts him off, unsure if he even wants Q to stitch him up. He’s already had a face full of glass, so some bullet grazing his rib almost feels anticlimactic.

“Helsinki. He covered me the rest of the way.”

Martín feels a twinge in his chest, wholly unrelated to the new wound. As the guilt sinks in, he says, “Why? Wh- where is he now?”

“With the rest of your team. You covered for me because you believed I was Berlin. Helsinki covered for me because-” Q pauses. “Because of you, I think. And before you ask me how I know- call it a sixth sense.”

Martín doesn’t know why but he laughs. “All these senses, all these skills, and you can’t even remember your own name.”

Q, for once, doesn’t say a word. As if Martín is finally getting through, as if some voice is finally creeping its ways through the walls of static, static- Q regards Martín then, not like he’s some insane piece of shit, not like the dirt under his shoe, but like a man he’s seeing for the very first time.

And to his knowledge, Q has never looked at anyone like that before. 

“Tell me, Palermo- this Andrés, what was he to you?”

The golden question. Martín smirks, or maybe smiles- he can’t tell the difference anymore. His head is light and he’s sure his blood cells are busy trying to stay inside his flesh. So he has no trouble with-

Step 10: Telling the simple truth

“He was my life,” he says. And he doesn’t care if Q believes him or not. That’s the thing about the truth- it doesn’t matter who believes it, doesn’t stop it from being the truth.

Q blinks. Purses his lips. “What was he like?”

Martín swallows, shuts his eyes. “A son of a bitch like you. Arrogant piece of shit. But he was beautiful to me, the kind of man you can’t forget. But he was never the fucking sun and stars to me.”

And like whiffs of smoke, Martín lets the words finally bleed out. “He was more like this planet in orbit, a lonely world of one. Its axis turns differently. A whole other solar system you couldn’t possibly reach from Earth… and I was the satellite that spun around him. He didn’t need me but he let me spin.”

Q doesn’t say anything back for a good minute. Then, against the static in his ear, he asks, “What happened to him?”

“Thought the professor told you. He stayed behind. Died-”

“No, what happened to him and you?”

Martín laughs, a little choked. He doesn’t think he’s crying, but he feels something wet from his cheek. “There was never a ‘him and me.’ This whole bank thing, it was our plan. But he left me behind for the Royal Mint. And you know what I said to him? It’s pathetic- you’ll laugh- I said-

* * *

_“I would have melted gold with you.”_

* * *

Q shudders, shivers the static away. Palermo’s voice becomes Prieto’s, and the word- not a name, a word- Andrés, twists back into Q, number 35889. 

* * *

Martín forces himself to sit up when someone slams on the bathroom door. From outside, he hears Bogotá’s voice:

“Palermo, please- we can’t keep this up. We need to stick to the plan.”

Q keeps his mouth shut. Martín does as well. Besides, what does the plan matter, when the whole reason for it is sitting right next to him? Whether said reason knows it is another matter.

“You really think doing this will change anything? Please, Palermo- I’m begging you, as a friend- to think about this shit. What will happen to you after all this? He’s not Berlin- he’s going to take you to jail.”

Maybe so. But Martín doesn’t give a fuck.

“Palermo?” Nairobi. Shit. “If you don’t listen to Bogotá, listen to me. If you don’t care what happens to you, what about Berlin? He’ll go right back- right back to them, doing whatever they want. Don’t let them do that to him.”

And just when Martín really starts considering the implications of those words (because Q certainly isn’t), Tokyo’s voice enters the chat:

“Palermo, you backstabbing son of a bitch! Get Berlin out here- he has a phone call. No, it’s not the professor.”

Martín shares a glance with Q then. _Who would call you?_ He thinks. 

Q takes Martín’s hand, and holds it over the tourniquet. Then he slips his grip out and says, “I have a hunch.”

* * *

Tokyo lied about one thing. The professor arranged this. But it is in fact, not him at the other end of the line. This time, it’s only Q and Palermo by the phone, as per Sergio’s request.

When Q holds the mouthpiece up, he says, “I’m here.”

Martín doesn’t quite know what he was expecting to hear next, but it certainly isn’t a woman’s breathless voice. 

_“Q? Are you all right?”_

“Hello, doctor. I’ve run into some complications, but I’m still in control. And you?”

Martín’s tempted to chime in with, You call this ‘in control’? But decides against it, more apprehensive of whoever this doctor is.

 _“If things were fine, I wouldn’t be calling you through this line, would I?”_ Dr. Y shoots back with a hint of impatience (though when it comes to Q, she’s always been impatient).

“Well, that sounds like an issue for you and the colonel. Now I have a job to get back to-”

_“Don’t bullshit me. You’re not fine. What is it this time- were you stabbed? You better be in one piece this time. Don’t let my work go to waste.”_

“I’m assuming the professor made some empty threats. I assure you, doctor, I’m fine.”

_“The vials-”_

Q takes a breath. Then releases. “I can make do.”

_“I can only heal the living. I can’t bring you back to life if you die.”_

“I won’t die.”

_“That’s what you always say.”_

At this point, Martín’s not sure what exactly he’s supposed to be listening to, if he should be enraged on Andrés’ behalf, unwittingly envious of Y, or- as he feels currently- simply confused. The only person (besides himself in the occasional spat) that’s ever spoken to Andrés in such a way is Sergio. With that odd mixture of fondness and cold frustration.

Q probably wonders the same thing, so he says, “Why are you calling?”

_“I needed proof you were alive, before we send someone else in. And-”_

Here, she pauses, as if grasping for words. Her next words are missing some of the ice, replaced with something that can almost pass for a warm plead.

_“I needed to know- did they say… anything to you?”_

Q shuts his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me about him, Berlin?”

_“Those were my orders. You of all people should understand-”_

“I’ll finish the mission. But I’m afraid I’m unclear who’s lying now.”

Step 11: Stop feeding him bullshit. Accomplished.

The doctor doesn’t speak, and Martín suspects the line’s gone dead before she picks up again.

_“Listen to me, Q. Don’t let them win, don’t let them get inside you. You’re stronger than that. I know you are.”_

And Martín clenches the fabric by his thigh, rib throbbing. He hears: Obey me Q- you don’t get to decide who you are, what you are.

“Then why lie?” Q says, dull. But when he opens his eyes, Martín sees the barest hint of hurt within.

_“Because who you were before, what you did before, it doesn’t matter to us. Not to Prieto. Certainly not to me. Berlin’s dead, and his sins died with him.”_

She’s good at bullshitting, but what Martín hears is: we hated who you were, so we broke you apart until you had nothing left and made you anew. 

_“And you’re nothing like him. Because the Q I know is a good man,”_ she says, as if she really believes every word, _“he’s worth more than anything in his past.”_

Martín’s in the middle of rolling his eyes when Q answers, “How do you know?”

_“I don’t know. I can only believe, and I’ve always believed in you, despite how stupid you are.”_

This part doesn’t quite sound rehearsed. And Martín’s tempted to throw the mouthpiece on the ground so he can stomp it to pieces. He doesn’t know what Andrés is thinking, but Martín feels _himself_ start doubting, a sickening piece of himself wondering if- maybe- Q actually doesn’t want to remember, if he truly prefers this life.

Because in the end, the corny doctor is right. Q _is_ better than Berlin. Q really thinks he’s doing all this for the greater good, whatever the fuck that is. And Martín can’t refute the doctor’s speech, not without telling Q- “you used to be a real scumbag. They called you a sadist, a psychopath, everything evil under the sun, a bastard with no empathy whatsoever. And I didn’t care because the truth is, I’m just as much a son of a bitch. We used to be two motherfuckers burning in hell, but now you have the chance to crawl out- is that what you want?”

But Martín doesn’t know that Y is just as nervous from her base. She’s not used to being out of her depth, and she’s certainly wary of whatever the infamous professor has planned. All she knows is that she can’t let Q become Berlin again, not after all that work, over seven-hundred and thirty days, around seventeen-thousand five hundred and thirty-one hours. 

What Q is to Y, that’s a story for another time. What you should know about them for now is only this- if Victor Frankenstein had tried to bond with his creature, that’s what they are. The mad doctor and the man she helped break apart to build back up. Pygmalion in reverse.

“I believe you,” Q says to the mouthpiece, but his eyes are on Martín.

Because Y doesn’t know that Martín is behind Q. She doesn’t know what Palermo was to Berlin, and that’s how- for once in her life- she loses.

Step 12: Doubt, doubt, and believe anyway. Accomplished.

* * *

This call is, of course, all part of Sergio’s latest plan, but that’s also a takeaway for another time.

* * *

After the call, the others try to take Q prisoner again. Martín’s not in much shape to help this time, so he only limps and staggers while Q steals a rifle from Matías (again), and makes his escape. Keep in mind that Q only has one functioning arm at this point. 

So Martín sticks close to him, pressing the trigger while Q aims and aims, their hands entwined. Q’s definitely aiming to maim, but there’s a lack of precision to his shots now. No longer shooting to kill. Then shooting for what?

“Take me to the hostages,” Q says.

“So after all that, still going back to them?” And the truth is, Martín won’t stop him. Not this time. It would be the second time Andrés has walked out on him, but this time, Martín’s helped him out the door.

Q refuses to answer. The truth is, the static in his head won’t let him answer. But he knows he’s here to save the hostages, first and foremost, here to get them out safe and sound. Whatever happens to him next- it doesn’t quite matter. Maybe he has a conscience (something the late Berlin certainly lacked) or maybe Y was right and Q _is_ a good man who would sooner die than fail the people he promised to save.

Or maybe his conviction is the only thing he has, the only thing Q’s held onto for the past two years, the only thing keeping him from all his doubts.

And Q almost makes it to the hostages before his limbs start trembling, little spasms of pain making their way through every nerve. Blood from his nose. But he goes on, and almost makes it again when someone tosses a grenade their way. Martín would have accepted his lot in life if it was Tokyo who did. But no. He sees Arturo’s fucking face- and fuck, where did he get that grenade?- before it goes off.

This time, Q pulls Martín away. Holds him tight while everything else goes boom.

* * *

Martín shakes away the dust, lost in the shadow of a crumbled wall, the lights shot out and everything dark. 

“Q?” he wheezes.

He sits, the wound straining, and pressing a hand to the blood seeping out, says, or rather cries, “Andrés! Q- Q!”

He finds the sling first, slightly singed, then the body lying still, a few spaces ahead.

* * *

Q hears it through the static, through layers and layers of noise peeling apart. Sees someone in the dark, candles flickering in silence, lips against his own-

* * *

_"I would have melted gold with you.”_

* * *

The fucking grenade didn’t get either of them, which probably speaks to its own uselessness than anything else.

Martín kneels by Q, tries to rouse him up. He’s breathing, which is good enough. But he’s a wreck, covered in patchwork wounds, dusty and battered and bleeding from the nose. More like gushing.

“Q, Q- can you hear me?” He gulps. “Andrés, wake up, I’m here-”

It would be a lie if Martín said he never fantasized about Andrés returning, if he never indulged in ludicrous, unbelievable fantasies in the dead of night, when he was absolutely buzzed and too tired to feel shame. In those fantasies, he’s the one breaking apart in Andrés’ arms, resting a head on Andrés’ hand while the other man soothes him with a kiss.

Fuck reality then. 

He leans over Q, then gathers him into his arms like he’s holding the holy pieta. He says his name, again and again, though he’s sure a nosebleed won’t kill Q. But he can never be sure. Not anymore.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” Martín says, “I won’t let anyone near you-”

And while he babbles, something rises before his eyes. Trembling fingers. They run over his mouth, and gaping, Martín looks at the man in his embrace. Q opens one eye first, then another, and heaves. 

A name.

“Martín,” Q- _Andrés_ \- gasps, lips parting under a stream of blood, “you’re Martín.”

Martín stops breathing then, something breaking apart in his veins. His name on _his_ tongue. That’s all it takes to break Palermo to powder, perhaps not even that.

Those fingers touch Martín’s jaw, and _Andrés_ says again, “Your name is Martín.”

Step 13: (Wait for it)

“You wanted to melt gold for- no, with me.” Andrés breaks into a wet-eyed smile, the blood still slipping down his face, beading at the top of his lip.

Step 13: Cry (there it is)

By then, Martín’s earned the right to weep. So he does. He pushes his brow against Andrés’ own, and weeps, ugly, quiet sobs that he hopes Andrés won’t remember. But Andrés tries to stroke his hair instead, lets him cry. And this time, he doesn’t leave. 

Granted, Andrés couldn’t leave even if he wanted to, not in that condition. But even if he had the choice, Andrés- formerly Q- would not.

“You and I are soulmates,” Andrés says, cloudy, “I said that, didn’t I?”

Martín can’t answer, not through the fucking tears. So he nods and croaks, “Q?”

* * *

_“My name is Andrés.”_

* * *

Step 14: Kiss him.

* * *

It won’t be long before the rest of the team finds them huddled together. Then Sergio will come back online and explain his plan, but by then, Martín won’t be listening. Lisbon will arrive soon on a helicopter and take charge from there. They’ll have to do something about Gandía’s body, among other things. There are apologies to be made (mostly from Martín), questions to answer, and heists to finish.

Of course there are complications, because there are always complications. But Martín’s guide ends on a simple note. 

* * *

Step 15: Kiss him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope this story was a fun ride! 
> 
> Would any of you like to see an epilogue for this?


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *nervous laughter* Surprise! I wanted to upload the epilogue for Valentine's Day, but that obviously didn't happen lol. Apologies for how long this took (I actually had the idea for the epilogue for a very long time haha). For those of you who still remember this story, thank you for reading through and for your interest in the epilogue! 
> 
> Warnings: angst with a happy ending, mood shifting, referenced torture, referenced PTSD, Marsinki rights, crack treated seriously

Beginning is the hardest part. So is ending. And sometimes the end is the beginning because the beginning is the end. It’s like the age-old question of the chicken or the egg. Now the question is if Martín’s guide ended, or if it just began. Because there are a lot of loose ends we need to cover.

If you’re still here, you should already be aware of a few notable things:

  * Lisbon, the former Inspectora Murillo, has taken command of the bank
  * Q, the former Andrés de Fonollosa, once Berlin, has accomplished the astonishing feat of remembering his own name
  * César Gandía has died, is dead, and will remain dead
  * Martín, still Palermo, has taken glass to his face, a bullet to his rib, a grenade to his air, and several fuck-yous to the head, including but not limited to the fact that his best friend- now lover- has returned from the dead as a brainwashed- now not-brainwashed- tool of the state
  * Despite all this drama, the professor still remembers what they’re doing and why they’re doing it and he knows it’s time they wrap this up



Then a lot happens, but you can’t expect Martín to be a big part of it. He spends his time confined to a corner with Q, now Andrés, while Nairobi watches over them. And she, in turn, is guarded by Bogotá, the love of her life. (Don’t question it.) 

To someone else (like Tokyo or maybe Prieto, poor poor Prieto), the end of the heist is the most important thing. But this is Martín’s story and he doesn’t really have any more fucks to give. So fill in the gaps yourself because Martín sure as fuck isn’t going to. Here’s what happens (happened):

  * Manila shoots Arturo straight through the knee (again). She has a good reason for doing it but let’s be honest- she doesn’t need a reason for doing it.
  * Lisbon makes Stockholm her second-in-command and this time, the matriarchy sticks. Raquel Murillo has an itch to scratch and a point to prove, and she proves it with a BANG (caps lock)
  * Alicia Sierra waterboards the professor. Sergio Marquina does not have fun. He’s saved when-
  * Marseille delivers Alicia Sierra’s son
  * Prieto and Tamayo shed some tears because they know they’re fucked when Sierra disappears and Q goes off the grid
  * Rio proposes to Tokyo (again) and this time, she says Yes. Martín will call it a revolting display of heterosexual love. Everyone else will say the _truly_ gag-worthy thing is the way Palermo coddled Q the whole time (“Get a room, Palermo.” “Go fuck yourself, concha de tu madre.”)
  * Sofia the ferret saves the day, landing her face on international news
  * When Sierra’s superiors finally, finally send the military in, the Dalis have disappeared, leaving a confused line of hostages defending themselves behind
  * There’s a lot of negotiating and backstabbing, but it works out in the end (as far as Martín’s concerned)



Nobody leaves in a body bag except César Gandía (who is still very much dead). In a different story, maybe the Dali death toll is much higher. But that’s not this story. In this one, the professor’s team escapes the way they came-- under the cover of trucks and tarps, and an underground passage that smells like sewer. 

On their way out, Nairobi puts her head in Bogotá’s lap and laughs as much as her weak lungs allow. She takes Helsinki’s hand in hers and asks if he’ll be their child’s godfather. That’s when Mirko cries. It’s also when Denver, hands entwined with Monica, utters, “You’re pregnant!? Already?”

“No,” she says, “just an idea.”

An idea that makes Bogotá’s face light up. You know, Bogotá’s not what one would call a handsome man. But when he smiles, Nairobi thinks he is  _ the one. _

And that’s when Q- no- Andrés, lying in Palermo’s grip, looks at Lisbon, a bandage around her brow, rifle over her shoulder, and says,  _ “Raquel- we’ve met before.” _

“Don’t remind me,” she answers, some tongue in cheek.

Andrés laughs, or maybe wheezes, and almost flashes a lopsided grin. Almost. But Martín wipes away the blood from Andrés’ nose anyway and grins right back. 

When transport comes to a stop, Lisbon’s the first to hop out. Sergio catches her and heads sweeping, they kiss then and there. And maybe if Andrés had been in his right mind, he would have found it extremely amusing. Had Andrés been in his right mind, he would laugh and feel a swell of pride. Throw a remark their way and make his brother blush. But as Q, he’s more concerned with the fizzling static in his head.

You already know that Martín’s fucked up. Andrés is no less fucked up, probably more, but that’s expected when your brain’s been diced to chips and drilled back together, just so it can be blown back up again. His only life line- constant- is Palermo, now Martín, and Andrés is sure he’ll drown in the pits of his own head if he lets go.

Andrés has never had a good head. But he was used to that chaos. Q isn’t. 

And if you recall from Bogotá’s inspection (see ch. 2 of How to Cope When Your Dead (Boy)Friend Comes Back as a Brainwashed Weirdo, a Guide by Martín Berrote), Q was already injured before the heist. So long as it doesn’t slow his man down, Prieto has little reservations sending Q in regardless. Q himself had been prepared to sacrifice an arm and a leg to get the hostages out. 

He just hadn’t been prepared for Martín Berrote.

So Q, now Andrés, blinks away the static when Sergio leans above him and clutches his hand. Sergio smiles, his eyes wet with pain and his grip tight, perhaps even tighter than Martín’s arms. One resurrection had nearly ended Sergio, but two? That’s enough to warrant a few tears.

Dr. Y’s voice sounds in Andrés’ head. He pictures Morocco and the orphanage by the shore. It’s just that. A picture. Rearrange the beds. It had been a hospital. He had been walking through Madrid. And the boy with the coffee hair. Thick glasses. 

“Hermanito,” Andrés says, something of a smile on his battered face, “it’s you-”

Tears on his face. His brother’s tears. Then his own. And with what little strength he has left, Andrés squeezes the professor’s hand back. 

The truth is he hadn’t recognized the professor’s face, not when it was on the blimp, and not through the countless times Dr. Y flashed it before his eyes. But he sees it now, when the man’s so close, breath on breath and in the flesh. His sixth sense. And it tingles the same way it did then, twenty some years ago when he first laid eyes on the boy with the coffee hair.

“Hermano,” Sergio tells him, a rare crack in his throat, “I love you very much. Don’t forget it.”

That’s when Martín pulls Sergio closer and smacks his lips on the professor’s cheek. And by Sergio’s ear, he whispers, “You son of a bitch. This heist was the best fucking thing to happen in years.”

“You’re welcome,” Sergio says right back.

* * *

The gang splits ways (again), but because being through the same shit twice makes your bond stronger, the professor removes his no-contact policy. The only policy he has is this-- if anyone gets themself caught by interpol again, nobody else is coming to the rescue. 

Which brings us here-- to the real epilogue:

Martín and Andrés hide in the open, in a city of a country that nobody would think to look because they wouldn’t think any wanted men in their right minds would be dumb enough to live there. So that’s what Martín does. It’s not like the police know what Palermo looks like and Berlin’s dead. All a thing of the past.

Now Martín hums along to the record player spinning behind, hips swaying while he tosses parsley and garlic in a pan. Between the two of them, Andrés had always been the better (see: pretentious) cook with some fixation on fine cuisine. Martín’s chimichurri remains uncontested, however, according to Martín himself. 

And it’s not like Andrés would complain. Martín’s come to learn that post-Q, Andrés can’t cook for shit. Andrés claims he can survive on rice and jerky, and he once went a week with no sustenance save his own (yeah), so there’s no reason for Martín to trouble himself. It took a grand total of three weeks for Martín to convince Andrés that dining is a luxury and that some people enjoy cooking. 

When Martín leaves the stove, he removes the towel from around his neck. He cools off by the balcony, and staring into the street below, covers one eye with his palm. His vision’s fucked, permanently. But he’s getting used to it, life with one eye. If he can get used to life with “Q,” then one eye is nothing.

He doesn’t smoke anymore, mostly because he wants to live longer. Because one more year means one more year with Andrés. And besides, he didn’t survive all those bullets and bombs just to get killed by some lungs. He’s thinking about stopping alcohol too. Hell knows he’s damaged his liver enough.

When he hears the click of a door, he knows Andrés is back. Martín returns to the flat in time to hear the man say, “I’m home.”

Andrés nods at him, like he’s reporting, and heads to the bathroom. It’s a habit of Andrés’, one that Martín’s still not sure if he should be concerned with or not. Andrés sticks to a tight schedule-- he wakes at four in the morning, pulls on a black T-shirt, and heads out. The first time, Martín had nearly lost his mind (which is a feat because this is Martín). He’d searched their flat high and low before taking to the streets and screaming Andrés’ name.

He’d found Andrés in the local gym, located above the candle shop. Martín had stumbled in, eyes puffed, clothes crooked, every part of him looking like some drunkard. And Andrés had only raised a brow at him from the treadmill. 

It’s funny, really, thinking back (read: frustrating). Martín knew Andrés loved being the center of attention, that he flaunted himself like a peacock with far too many feathers. But Q? Q’s a soldier. He does what he does regardless of who looks at him. And somehow, Q- Andrés- becomes the center of attention anyway. Martín can’t say he didn’t see it coming though (pun intended): Q is movie-star handsome, a touch rugged thanks to the colonel’s hand, and built like an underwear model. 

So it’s only natural when the gym tries to make Andrés their poster boy. Enough people flock around his workouts as it is (and contrary to popular belief, it doesn’t make Martín jealous because he knows Andrés only has eyes for him). No, but thank you very much. Sergio would kill Martín if he allowed Andrés’ face to be exposed like that (which is rich, in Martín’s opinion because between the two of them, Martín’s not the one who gave Andrés’ buttons to the cops). 

Speaking of Sergio, the last time Martín heard from him, the professor was with Lisbon (unlike the brothers, Martín still can’t bring himself to call her “Raquel”) and her family in Thailand, with plans for a wedding in the coming year. The post cards, Andrés keeps tacked to their fridge. But before that, Sergio had come to the flat with them and stayed for so long that Martín had asked him if his girlfriend ran off with someone else.

Sergio, being the humorless bastard he was, hadn’t been amused. 

“I’m here for my brother,” he’d said. 

He kept his word. Sergio had stayed for as long as Andrés was bedridden, brain-rattled. He’d waited until the broken arm healed and nosebleeds stopped. He’d even administered the injections that Martín forgets Andrés still needs. For that at least, Martín’s grateful-- he’s not sure if he could have handled those first months on his own, not without demanding Andrés tell him where his once-superiors lived so Martín can hunt them down then and there and probably die trying.

Because it’s far from smooth sailing with Andrés at first. Q wasn’t human-- Q was a tool. And it was hard (read: very hard) for Martín to get that through his head. Andrés would wake in the middle of the night, try to crawl out of bed and head back to Prieto, for no reason other than the fact that he felt he should. He’d asked Martín to punish him for his ‘mistakes’ in the bank, and when Martín said Fuck No, Andrés had asked Sergio. He’d mistaken Martín’s electric razor for a taser and that was really all Martín needed to know.

So those first few months with Q were like buckets upon buckets of ice.

Andrés had insisted the two of them leave him be, that he was perfectly capable of managing himself. But his idea of managing involved bleeding through the nose, tumbling out the window, and falling on his broken arm, saved from death by the balcony. And when Martín came to his rescue, Andrés had the balls to say, “Be careful- it’s raining.”

It was also hard to leave Andrés alone but when Sergio’s there, Martín knew it for the best. So he’d stepped aside and peeked from door cracks and listened by walls. Sergio would sit by his brother, speak to him like a child, and whisper of things that only they knew. Andrés certainly slept better when Sergio was around, Martín would give him that. 

The worst part was probably the time Martín found Andrés huddled in the bathtub, clutching his head in a corner and sobbing (and when had Andrés ever sobbed?) in his knees. When Martín touched him, he’d flinched away, then shot straight up and shoved Martín to the ground, elbow in his throat. Sergio had pried him off and spent the next hour patting his brother’s spine, soothing him like a wild cat while Martín felt a new bruise blossom. Holy fucking shit?

Or maybe the worst part was the amount of scars Martín saw in that tub, some he recognized, most he didn’t. Or maybe the  _ worst  _ worst part was his own doubt (because Martín’s specific form of self-loathing always comes back in the end)-- did Andrés love him or did he think he had to? Was he any better than the sons of bitches who had broken Q apart? Was it wrong of Martín to miss Andrés, the old Andrés? Was he a terrible son of a bitch for resenting what he’d become? Or was he just mad over being helpless to help?

So when Andrés’ bones have mended and Sergio’s left, Martín had popped the question:

“Do you love me or do you think you have to? Am I a terrible son of a bitch for asking this?”

Andrés had been busy polishing his pistols. He used to prefer reading a novel, penning a sketch. This Andrés preferred running laps and bench pressing on the ground. 

“I don’t remember a lot of things, Martín,” Andrés answered, “I don’t think I ever will. But I know I love you. I always have.”

And just like that, he went back to his guns. 

It had been reassuring, but sometimes Andrés pops questions back and Martín isn’t sure how to answer. Like that time Martín had flipped on his side in bed and found Andrés staring at him from the other pillow, something dark in his eyes.

“Why do you love him?” he’d asked, “Andrés?” like he’s speaking about someone else. Martín hates it.

“Fuck if I know. Why do you love me?”

“You’re brilliant and loyal. You’re not kind, but you’re kind to him- I- he didn’t have much kindness in his life.”

“Okay? Can you go to sleep now?”

Andrés’ eyes shift, like he’s ashamed of what he’s about to say. “Andrés was a misogynist, a sadist, a psychopath, worse than that- I remember what he- I- did in the Mint. How can you love a man like this?”

What would Andrés do, is what Martín thinks. A long time ago, if he’d asked the same question, Andrés would have laughed and put his palm on the back of Martín’s head, brought him closer and said- 

So Martín does the same, and looking Andrés in the eye, says, “Because I do. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re still a psychopath and I’m just as much a son of a bitch. I’m not happy with the things he did, I’m not some blind dog that follows his every move, but I am this- a man that chose to love  _ you  _ anyway.”

And because Q seems capable of feeling an emotion Andrés had locked away for who knows how long (read: guilt), Martín lies through his teeth and says, “It’s like that idiot doctor said- you’re not Berlin anymore. So we can’t do anything except move forward, eh?”

Andrés doesn’t seem convinced, but he does go back to sleep. He still doesn’t answer to “Andrés” more than half the time, but Martín’s training him to, like some pet, and it leaves a rather bad taste in his mouth to even make that comparison.

Sometimes Martín tries to jog more of Andrés’ memory, to coax a laugh from him since Q’s more inclined to offer tight-lipped frowns. Andrés can still draw, but paint no longer holds the same passion for him, as if he’s been conditioned to avoid it, some subconscious part of his fuzzy brain still convinced he’d be punished for allowing his old pursuits to return. When Martín drags him to the museum, Andrés absently looks through every sculpture and painting.

“You would have loved this one,” Martín tells him before a particularly inspired piece, “you’d love the mixture of modernity and classicism- you’d come up with some scheme to steal it and of course, I’d have to think it up for you.”

Martín chuckles at his own joke, but Andrés only blinks. And walks away.

Q even prefers whiskey to wine. 

Which brings us back to their flat, Andrés in the shower, and Martín looking through the mail, two things on his mind: 1) barely any trace of Andrés remains in Q, and 2) Martín will brave hell and high water to drag those traces back out.

Martín finds a postcard from the Himalayas. Mirko’s there with Marseille, traveling the world one mountain at a time. They seem happy together, judging by the excited letters. Martín’s glad, really. Mirko’s a good man and Marseille’s good to him, and that’s really all one can ask for their friend (yes, Martín has accomplished the astonishing feat of referring to someone else as “friend”; why anyone would want to be friends with Martín, however, is beyond Tokyo’s comprehension, but if she asked, Martín would only say “because I’m not you!”).

Martín tacks it to the fridge, above Sergio’s card, and strolls to the bathroom. 

“Andrés, I’m coming in,” he says by the door, and Andrés responds with a grunt.

Martín enters and stripping everything off, gets into the tub. He’s hit with water from the showerhead. Smoothing his hair back, he rubs himself against Andrés. On instinct, Andrés catches his mouth in a sloppy kiss, pushing forward until Martín’s against the tiled wall, back wet. Something else is wet too, and Martín’s sure it isn’t wet from the shower.

“Shit,” he gasps, “the water’s cold.”

“I’ll make it warmer,” Andrés says by his ear.

He reaches for the knob, arm crossing over Martín’s shoulder. The thing about Andrés, formerly Q, is that he’s toned, the perfect amount of lean muscle and abs (which the Andrés Martín once knew certainly was not in possession of). So in moments like this, Martín is horny as hell. One or two times, Andrés had asked him if the scars bothered him and Martín had told him that was a dumbass question. 

“No,” he tells Andrés, a hand to his chest, “leave it.”

He attacks Andrés’ lips again, and he feels a hardness grind down below. They kiss (read: eat) each other’s mouths, and do some other things too.

* * *

If Martín has it his way, the epilogue would have ended by now. He and Andrés would dance to a record, share a glass of wine, and live happily ever after in each other’s arms. But those kinds of endings aren’t built for Martín, and Andrés certainly isn’t built for that either. So it shouldn’t surprise you when the two of them run into more bullshit down the line.

The bullshit starts after Martín returns from an actual line at a cafe, two cups of coffee in hand. His is black because he drinks it black. Andrés likes his filled to the brim with milk and cream (that at least, has never changed). But when he gets to the table outside, a circle of wood under a slanted umbrella, he finds someone else in his seat, across Andrés.

A woman in a checkered coat. Dark hair pulled into a ruffled bun. Round sunglasses above her eyes. She taps a glass of water in her hand.

Andrés doesn’t look too surprised. But Martín’s grown used to random fuckers walking up to Andrés. In some form of cosmic irony, Q naturally draws the attention Andrés always wanted. So Martín sets the coffee down and says- best as he can in the local tongue- “Move it, lady. He’s not an actor, he won’t do autographs. He just looks good in black, and he’s taken.”

“I know,” she says.

And Martín’s blood freezes because he remembers that voice. That voice. That voice.

“Q,” she tells Andrés, “think about what I said. You’re the only one-”

“You.” Martín spits the word out, as if his tongue’s burned.  _ “You- how dare you-” _

Dr. Y looks at him, smiles. BITCH. “Hello Palermo. Have you been caring for my agent all this time?”

She drops the sunglasses, eyes amber in the light. “He looks well. I would have thought he’d be dead by now. You know you can’t go too long without the injections, Q.”

She pokes the ice in her glass. “They gave you a good substitute, but it’s nothing compared to what I’ve been treating you with. At this rate, you’ll deteriorate in no time. Soon you won’t even be able to piss right.”

Martín’s so angry he can’t even talk, mostly because he’s trying and failing to think of the perfect curse. His blood’s on fire and FUCK YOU doesn’t seem to accurately convey the amount of bad will he’s wishing on Y.

“Did you know that, Palermo?” she asks him, not even looking his way, “when we first met, Q couldn’t even piss right. Prieto’s men liked to beat him for it. Now, was that before or after they punched all his teeth out? I replaced those too.”

Q doesn’t seem a quarter as upset as Martín. He’s even bold enough to look at Martín and say, “Relax.”

Martín’s about ready to claw Y’s throat out. And even though she doesn’t show it, Y’s also this close to clawing Martín’s throat out. She resents him deeply for taking away her greatest project. Someone like Y (much like Berlin, formerly Q, now Andrés) doesn’t connect with humans easily. Q (because like hell, she’ll allow him to go back to being Andrés in her head) was the closest she had to a companion. 

The thing about Y is that she hates the state’s agents with a fiery passion. Lazy, selfish, ineffectual pricks, is the term she’s coined. There’s no 007 in real life, just a bunch of assholes who think they’re shit even when they fail to accomplish shit. So she saw Andrés and turned- molded- him into her Bond; classy, dedicated, effective-- Q was all these things and more. Q was her greatest accomplishment, her galatea.

And this Palermo- Martín Berrote- ruined it all in what, a day? Unacceptable. And because Y can’t do anything about it, she just hits him where it hurts. 

“You know why he couldn’t piss well, Palermo?” she goes on, “because they broke his legs. I was there, they used steel, and he was pathetic- you wouldn’t want to fuck him if you’d been there. Not if you could smell it, if you could see him in that puddle, he couldn’t even crawl right- do you want to see the tape? I brought it just for you-”

_ “I’ll kill you!” _

Martín throws the glass at her face, every nerve trembling. But the cup breaks against Andrés’ face instead. He’s moved in front of Y by then, and as if nothing’s happened, raises a hand to wipe the blood from his brow.

“Martín, calm down,” he says.

What the fuck.

“WHAT THE FUCK!?” Martín cries, no longer concerned with making a scene and oh, it is a scene.

Y gets out of the chair then. Again without looking at Martín, she says to Andrés, “I’ll be back tomorrow, Q. I hope you’ll come.”

As Y leaves, Martín rushes after her, but Andrés catches his wrists before he can lunge and rip her eyes out.

“What the fuck, let me go- I’ll rip her head off!” he roars.

“Martín, calm down-”

Martín shoves himself from Andrés’ grip, and boiling to a point, shouts at him, “What was that!? Why would you- you know what, you and Stockholm should switch names! Because that’s what you have, eh!?”

“Martín-”

“Who the fuck would do that!?” And with a rough wave, Martín says, “Andrés wouldn’t have stood for that shit- you shouldn’t stand through that shit-”

“Well, I’m not Andrés, am I?” That gaze hardens. “you’ve been abundantly clear about that.”

And casting Martín a glare, Andrés turns away. Before Martín can stop him, he fades into the crowd of onlookers, everyone parting to let him pass (read: so they can enjoy the Tea). Martín stands, shuddering, knees weak, the rush of anger finally leaving him and replaced with fear. What does he feel?

  * Fear
  * Grief
  * Guilt
  * Blame
  * Utter misery



All of the above. Martín drowns it in again, that spiral of self-imposed misery he drank in for the past five years. He wants to drop to his knees and cry. But he doesn’t do that because the equivalent of dropping to your knees and crying for Martín is to shout “go fuck yourself!” at the nearest person (that person however did cry), kick over a chair, and stomp away seething.

His first instinct is to find his good friend, Johnny Walker, and ruin his liver even though he told himself he’d quit drinking that very morning. Maybe if he drinks himself to death, Andrés will come to his funeral and feel so guilty that he’ll never look Y’s way again. But if Martín does die, then he wouldn’t be surprised if the good doctor stops by to vandalize his grave (he’s wrong about that; if Martín does die, Y would convince Q to vandalize the grave, preferably after she convinces him Palermo’s death was his fault- she’s a lot more spiteful than we give her credit for). 

So Martín wanders the streets instead, never mind the drops of rain falling from above. He thinks about Andrés’ glare, a cold look he hasn’t given Martín since the bank. It makes him more miserable. Maybe it was all for nothing, and Andrés really is gone, metaphorically that is. Well, physically too.

He circles the candle shop, searches the gym (where someone makes a pass at him and Martín replies with a middle finger), and runs back to the cafe. No sign of Andrés. But if he does run into him, Martín isn’t sure what to say.

He’s soaking by then, hair sticking to his eyes in streaks. Martín pushes it back, slicking the strand behind (he keeps his hair slicked back now because Andrés had liked the look- he’d felt it familiar). He rests his brow on a brick wall, staring downwards at his shoes. There’s nobody to curse except a stray cat, a mangy angry sad thing hiding from the rain (in other words, Martín’s kindred spirit).

_ I’m not Andrés, am I? _

Martín remembers then, the last time they’d visited the fucking cafe. It had been much later in the afternoon that day. On the way out, an old woman had screamed, wobbling on her cane, “Help! Help!” And Martín’s eye found the source of her distress-- a bastard making off with the lady’s wallet on fast feet. He was fast, but not as fast as Andrés.

Martín had ended up running after Andrés, hot on the thief’s tails, Q mode switched on. Andrés caught the guy, shoved him down, and pummeled his face. Mechanical blows that showed no sign of stopping, until Martín caught his fists and cried for him to stop (“son of a bitch, you’ll kill him!”). Andrés- Q- had blinked a few times before stepping off. 

He got the wallet back though, but Martín’s not sure if the bastard on the ground would ever recover from a broken nose. Then he’d stood by while the woman poured out her praises, thanking Andrés again and again for his help. All while the thief tried to crawl away. At the moment, Martín had been horrified, less by the poor bastard on the concrete, and more by Andrés himself. Andrés- his Andrés- would have been the one who stole the wallet. He’d make a show of returning it later, after pocketing its contents for himself, and grin at Martín for what he’d done.

In retrospect, Martín thinks it’s kind of funny. Q’s conviction, as horrifying as it was, is a little endearing. Maybe that’s why that fucker of a doctor refused to let him go.

He’s unsure if he’s crying or if the rain’s running over his face again. Q’s quiet, compared to Andrés. Never speaks unless spoken to. He doesn’t wax poetic about the sun and moon, or anything else. But he looks at Martín the same way Andrés had, and sometimes he almost smiles, sometimes he’d take Martín’s hand first and absently kiss his fingers.

He remembers Q lifting him onto his shoulders, convinced that it was a good form of exercise and not an excuse to be closer to Martín. Remembers the way he’d touched the holes on Martín’s cheekbone, trying to smooth away the scars. Remembers the eyes, silent, but there. Always there.

Shit.

Martín sniffs, nose stuffy. Must be the allergies and not the tears. This is, he realizes, the mortifying ordeal of falling in love with Q. He loves him, he realizes, as much as he loved Andrés. Because they are the same man. Q had been Andrés all along.

And just as Martín makes this realization, the rain stops.

Martín turns around. Nope, still raining. But he’s in the shade of an umbrella, Andrés holding it above them both. There’s a patch of gauze on his temple, but otherwise, he looks the same as he did some hours ago. 

Martín throws himself at Andrés, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. 

“Fuck,” he says, no doubt staining Andrés’ shoulder with messy tears, “I’m sorry- I shouldn’t have- don’t leave- I can’t lose you again.”

And he’s about to tell Andrés that he can call himself whatever he wants- Berlin, Q, Andrés, Sergio’s asshole brother- and Martín wouldn’t give a fuck. He’d always be  _ him _ to Martín, and that’s really all Martín cares about, should ever have cared about. He’s about to say it all, heart on his sleeve, when Andrés shushes him, a finger to Martín’s lips. 

“Martín, I’m sorry.” Andrés moves a strand of hair from Martín’s eye, the bad one. “For everything.”

And something tells Martín he’s not apologizing over the cafe. Martín laughs, a cackle dying in his own sob.

“Sounds like you’re saying goodbye again- I can’t stop you if you walk away. But I’m a selfish son of a bitch who’d like to try.”

Andrés doesn’t confirm or deny anymore. Just stares into Martín’s face and says a quiet, “Let’s go home.”

* * *

Back in their flat, Andrés dries Martín off with a towel, coaxing him in low tones, as if he’s the one that got hit with a glass of water instead. It’s laughable in Martín’s opinion, but he leans into Andrés’ every touch anyway. And while a kettle boils, Andrés tells him everything. As much as he’s able.

Y’s come to him with a proposition. Her injections did work better than Sergio’s. If Q does this favor for her, she’ll send him more, a lifetime’s supply if he wishes, free of “charge.” Prieto’s been fired and his replacement’s not doing too well. And if he doesn’t do well, the state will pull the plug on their whole operation, including Y and her department. She’s done too much and still has too much to do to step down now.

Then Andrés unfolds a photo from his pocket, a headshot of a girl in pigtails. A diplomat’s daughter, six years old, abducted by an arms dealer-turned-terrorist over her corrupt father’s bad deal. Ransom’s too high, but not as high as the chance of the child dying, likely cut to pieces to prove a point. 

And when Martín asks for more details, Andrés can’t say.

“Shit, you believe that story?” Martín says, flabbergasted, “after all the lies she fed you?”

“The doctor wouldn’t lie about this,” Andrés replies, automatic, like he’s so sure of Y’s character, as if she didn’t just boast about breaking his legs that same day.

“How the fuck- okay, say it’s true- why  _ you, _ why don’t they send in someone else, like I don’t know, the hundreds of assholes they sent after us at the bank?”

The real answer is because the government (any government) is always more alarmed over gold and bills than flesh and blood lives.

Andrés’ answer is: “Because I’m the best there is.”

“Okay,” Martín says, trying his damndest not to contest Andrés, “so you go in, risk your life  _ again, _ and save the girl. Then what? Prieto Two keeps his job, that bitch keeps hers, and you? What if they lock you up again? I don’t see the up side in this.”

“The doctor will keep her word.”

Martín really wants to smack him, so he smacks himself instead. “Andrés, she’s not your friend, she’s not your boss- she spent two fucking years torturing you and she’d kill me, she’d kill your brother, she’d kill everyone in a heartbeat.”

“I know.”

This conversation is going nowhere. But whatever the twisted relationship between Q and Y means, Martín won’t have time to unpack now. That’s a story for another time. 

“Then you’re doing it for the treatments?” Martín asks, “maybe her vials do work better, but your brother’s a genius- almost as smart as me- we’ll tell him, he’ll figure something out-”

“I’m not doing it for the injections.”

“Then why else-” Martín’s eyes spin, like it’s all coming together in a direction he understands but wishes he didn’t, “you want to do it for the girl? Are you serious?”

Andrés purses his lips, looks away. The expression doesn’t change, but Martín’s learned to read him. He grabs his wrist.

“Is this about the mint?” he says, desperate, “Andrés, it’s not worth it- there’s no connection. It won’t make up for what  _ Berlin _ did-”

But he trails off, unsure how to say what he wants without sounding like he’s telling Andrés not to give a fuck about feeling guilty (read: that’s exactly what Martín thinks). How do you explain guilt to a man who’s never felt such a thing? (read: _ admitted _ to feeling such a thing)

“I know,” Andrés tells him, “it doesn’t matter. If I don’t save her, no one will. Do you understand, Martín?”

He looks at Martín with the sort of conviction the old Andrés used to have, albeit for completely different reasons. And Martín knows there’s no convincing him now. He understands, and that’s the end of that.

Then, because his eyes feel hot again, Martín asks him, “What that fucking doctor said today- was it true? Did they do all that to you?”

Andrés doesn’t answer, like he’s thinking, and it hurts Martín more than a thousand glass bullets in his skin.

“I don’t know,” Andrés replies, softly, truthfully. “I don’t remember.”

Y had brought a tape. But Martín doesn’t trust it. Fake or real, he doesn’t want to see it, doesn’t think he can bring himself to.

Andrés lifts his shirt up, folding it over his head and behind. As the rain pours on, he recounts each scar to Martín, some stories truer than others. Martín memorizes them all, each mark splashing over Andrés’ flesh, as if they were his own. Bullets, blades, burns, the start of a chain, a lash-- some from Q’s assignments- battle scars, some from his punishments, and some a mystery to them both.

But Martín pieces the puzzle together and the picture, no matter how ugly, how painful, he takes in. Because it’s Andrés and Martín will take him any which way.

When Andrés puts the shirt back on, Martín’s lost his appetite. But they finish yesterday’s leftovers anyway. Martín still puts on a record, pulls Andrés into a light dance, and laughs when a blush comes over Andrés’ cheeks. When Andrés takes his nightly cognac, Martín switches to tea. 

And even though they don’t speak for the rest of the night, they spend it in each other’s arms. A night like any other, and Martín pretends it’s not the last.

* * *

Martín’s bereft after Andrés leaves at dawn, the sun not yet up. He sits, staring at the door, willing Andrés to return. In reality, little more than a minute passes. For Martín, it’s an eternity. He considers three options then:

  * Die because he’s sure Andrés will die
  * Write to Mirko and convince him and Marseille to let him join them on their honeymoon to Antarctica or whatever
  * Get up



And then a touch of inspiration (see: regular Martín madness) seeps into his blood. What the fuck was he doing? Waiting for Andrés like some housewife? 

“What the fuck am I doing!?” he shouts, “waiting for Andrés like some housewife!?”

_ La concha de tu madre, _ he thinks.

“La concha de tu madre!” he shouts.

And snapping, Martín rushes out, out the doorway, and out the streets. In time to see Andrés enter a cab with Y inside. Just as the car leaves, Martín latches onto the door. He slaps the window, again and again until the driver stops to curse at him. Then swinging the door open, he forces himself in, landing beside Andrés in an awkward heap.

“Martín,” Andrés starts, but Martín cuts him off: “I’m coming with you, like it or not.”

From the front seat, Y looks back, thoroughly shocked, and hisses, “No you’re not- get the fuck out!”

And before Martín can cuss her out, Andrés says, “It’s fine. Let him come.”

And while Y fumes, Martín exchanges a glance with Andrés, some kind of smile in his gaze. And for a moment, those five years never happened. This brings us to the epilogue’s epilogue:

Now Martín finds himself hanging onto the edge of a helicopter for dear life, legs tangled in a dangling ladder, a screaming six-year-old in his arms while Q wrestles with a man twice his size from within. Martín winces when Q’s back hits the window- no doubt, Andrés will carry the bruise for a week or two, assuming they live that long.

“You’ll be okay, Paula!” Martín tells the child, even though every brain cell is screaming for respite.

“My name’s Paloma!” the girl cries, more terrified than before.

Oh right. Paula was Andrés’ niece-to-be. 

“That’s what I said!” Martín tells her.

“No you didn’t!”

“Hey-” Then Martín screams, a bullet having whizzed past his arm, leaving a bloody gash. “Fucking- stop shooting at me! You assholes are going to hell!”

Fuck, it hurts (though Martín’s been through much worse, if you recall, but Martín is the type of man to think every new wound is worse than the last, even if it wasn’t). When the bastard above moves to shoot him, or rather the girl, again, Andrés clocks his skull with a rifle, pried from the hands of his last opponent. And when the man crumples, Andrés tosses him out. Murder, it seems, Q doesn’t feel guilty for. 

“Are you alright!?” Andrés demands.

“Do we fucking look okay to you!?” Martín says.

Evidently, Andrés sees Martín’s point. Because he slides off the helicopter’s edge, wordlessly taking Martín and the girl (Paloma, not Paula) into his arms. 

“Martín, listen to me,” Andrés says, adjusting the parachute on his back, also taken from one of the unconscious fuckers above, “I’m going to count to three and we’re going to jump.”

“Okay-”

“THREE.”

Before Martín can say “la concha de tu-” he’s fallen into open air, clinging onto the girl with one arm, and Andrés with the other. The parachute pops up and to Andrés’ credit, they glide to the ground without breaking all their bones. They land on an empty beach, where Martín promptly intakes a mouthful of sand because of course he would.

Andrés unhooks the parachute, lifts Paloma into his shoulders, and holds out a hand for Martín to take. Still lying in sand, Martín looks at him-- Q’s lip is split, his right eye black, blood flowing from his temple, a hundred or so tiny cuts on his arms, and he still somehow looks like he walked out from a photoshoot. Fuck, the wounds don’t even look real-- he looks better than most action stars, like the sun itself is his personal photographer.

Martín, on the other hand, probably looks like something a shark chewed up, spat out, and then returned to shit on. But if he could see Andrés’ thoughts, he’d know that Andrés thinks he looks pretty damn good too, all things considered (but Martín’s narcissistic form of self-loathing is too strong for that).

Even so, Martín beams, and allows Andrés to help him to his feet. Together, they hobble towards the horizon, where Prieto Two’s van awaits. You should be aware of three things after this:

  * Dr. Y keeps her promise because she is, if nothing else, a woman of her word
  * This may not be the last time Prieto 2.0 calls on Q
  * At Sergio and Raquel’s wedding, Martín calls Paula “Paloma”



Which brings us to the  **final** epilogue:

Andrés inspects a painting, a Baroque centuries old. The museum’s stuffy, no thanks to the crowds around, but cool enough for Martín to endure. When Martín reads the placard, Andrés says to him, “I like this one.”

It’s the first time Andrés has made a comment on art since his return from the bank. A pleasant surprise for Martín. But what gets him is Andrés’ next phrase, a familiar hint of devious bastardry within:

“It would look good in our home.”

And Andrés almost smiles. But Martín breaks into a full grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I promise that this is the end, and comments&kudos are more than welcome.
> 
> If you're interested in more of my nonsense, this is my (bad) writing blog: [roccinan.tumblr.com](http://roccinan.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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